


Straight Boy Pain

by Glenmore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birds, Coming Out, M/M, Pain, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:51:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9137005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glenmore/pseuds/Glenmore
Summary: Sherlock is in pain. Billy Kinkaid, the Camden garroter and best man Sherlock knows, diagnoses it. Ademar Silver, a male prostitute in south London, attempts to treat it. Lestrade, kindly Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard,  doesn’t notice it. Eventually, John Watson, healer and registered medical doctor, cures it.And a beautician called Penny paints Sherlock’s toenails.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written just after Series 3, and posted way back then too. It was taken down for a long while. I'm putting it back up so I can sign up for Fandomtrumpshate.

It was all lovely. Mary left, there was no baby. John came to Sherlock and simultaneously raged and moaned for almost six solid hours:

“How could I miss a fake pregnancy? Why did I choose her? Why did you have to jump in the first place?” he asked repeatedly. 

And finally, in what Sherlock would always count as the highlight of that very important night, “Is there any point in me asking if I can come back to Baker Street?” 

Oh, though Sherlock with hot sticky glee, there’s lots of points. Dozens of them. Enough points to make it pointier than a jousting match. 

But Sherlock contained his excitement to be gentle, sympathetic and generous. 

“John, rest assured that there is always a room for you here. Consider yourself my flatmate starting now.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely. You’re my best friend.” Sherlock added that descriptor with particular satisfaction. He loved saying it. He had never had a friend before, let alone a best one, and stating it plainly brought him immense joy. “It would be a privilege to have you back.” 

John was not a man for letting the grass grow under his well-shod feet. He re-instated his furniture and possessions in less than twenty-four hours. 

In less than forty-eight hours it was like they had never been separated. John made tea, Sherlock flopped on the couch. They argued, discussed, disagreed, agreed and each smiled widely at the other when they thought the other couldn’t see. 

Sherlock waited patiently for romance to blossom. He had no idea how to start a relationship but had complete faith in John doing that because John knows those kinds of things. He can plaster broken limbs, fix loose hinges and conceal small lethal pieces of metal in his trousers. John, Sherlock was certain, would surely know how to initiate the first kiss and get them underway to a lifetime of cosy late night cuddling, blissful comforting oral sex and occasional frottage in the shower. Sherlock could wait. 

 

Sherlock waited. It was lovely for a few sweet weeks. 

 

Soon John found himself a job at as a prison doctor which was unusual, considering the kind of work he did with Sherlock. It was also sensible, because he worked only three days a week and made four pounds a week more than he did for a full week at the clinic. He liked the work and the prisoners liked him because he was fair and straightforward and an extremely capable clinician. 

Sherlock, too, liked John being a prison doctor because he worked only three days a week, which allowed Sherlock opportunity to bask in the glory of Watson light for four days a week. Also, Sherlock knew quite a lot of John’s patients, and in many cases one or both of them had been responsible for the patients being in prison. 

Sherlock loved familiar things, loved to see connections between facts and situations. 

But there’s always something. 

One Wednesday evening John had come home from work but didn’t fossick in the kitchen and didn’t lean over Sherlock’s shoulder to see why he had twenty eight feathers laid out in order of size on the table. Instead John rushed into the shower and washed with haste under very hot water before bounding up the stairs to don his best trousers and neatest shirt. 

Sherlock observed silently and deduced it was a lot not good. 

Clean and fresh and shining like a conker, John popped his head into the lounge room and grinned at Sherlock, who sat passively behind his microscope, harvesting miniscule specks of residue from a sparrow’s feather. 

“I’ve got a date!” John beamed. “I thought it was time to get back on the horse, so to speak.” 

Sherlock lifted his face and stilled as if his bones had set in concrete. He stared right through John as the loveliness washed out the door and into the deep gutter that runs along Baker Street. 

The stress sent his senses into lockdown, while his wit and sensibility went into overdrive. 

“With whom?” he asked carefully. 

“Fiona!” 

Fiona? Sherlock flicked through the files in the admin office of his mind palace, the room where he kept temporary facts that he could delete quickly if they were untouched after eight weeks. 

“Fiona? The Governor’s personal assistant?” 

“Yes!” John kept beaming, waiting for Sherlock to disagree and explain too precisely why dating Fiona was a bad idea. 

But the loveliness was gone and Sherlock didn’t want to risk losing John with it, for it is better to die inwardly with John around than to live in loveliness without him. 

“Ah, of course. Fiona. Have a nice night,” was all he said. 

John blinked at him, a little confused, but there wasn’t time to engender an argument. 

That’s not right, John thought as he rushed out the door. Sherlock should have objected. No matter, he reasoned as he raced down to Soho, where he and Fiona would start at a pub and move on to a mediocre Chinese restaurant. He’s bound to bombard me with texts all night. He’ll probably call me within the hour and insist I come home to find his phone charger. 

These thoughts cheered John up. 

Unfortunately they were pointless thoughts because Sherlock did none of these things. 

Sherlock, poor soul, was crushed with misery. He had waited so long to get to this lovely stage in their relationship where there was nothing – no international consulting criminals, no faux deaths, no blonde assassins – to stand in the way of what he hoped would be the lovely relationship he and John were meant to have. He loved John; he had no doubt about that now. John loved him, or at least that was what Sherlock deduced when he sat down one rainy night, not long after John was married, and set about distilling every single thing he and John had ever said to one another. 

That night had been a long one. Sherlock had to walk for miles through his palace’s corridors and the deductions were arduous. When he finished he felt foolish because it had been there all along: John surely loved him too. Who else would continue to make him tea after so many appalling transgressions? Who else licked their lips when they looked at him? Who else laughed at his jokes? Who else hugged him when he said nice things at their wedding? Who else shot a morally decrepit cab driver to save his life? 

It was, as Sherlock had declared at the wedding, always John Watson. 

Since that night of special deductions, Sherlock decided he only had to exercise his remarkable self control and one day John would come to him, spinning around to point with an outstretched arm to proclaim it was always him, Sherlock Holmes. 

Yet here he is, solidified at his table and surrounded by twenty eight different feathers organized in a row according to their height, trying to understand that maybe it wasn’t always him. Worse, much worse, maybe it never was. 

Sherlock takes a moment to needlessly arrange the feathers one last time before trudging up to John’s room. Ordinarily he would use this opportunity to paw through all of John’s belongings and secrets, but such an activity held no charm anymore. Instead he opened John’s sock drawer and stared with great misery at the fourteen pairs of socks, each one rolled into a neat ball with its brother. One by one Sherlock takes a pair, unfolds it, holds each sock to his face before rolling the pair together again and laying it gently in the drawer. He recites all the colours of the socks in his head and, as he holds each pair, recalls each outfit that John wears with specific socks. 

The he closes the drawer and turns out the light as he leaves. 

Rigid in the revelation of John’s apparent heterosexuality, Sherlock feels drained, drained in the same way he has seen an embalmer empty a corpse of blood before filling the frail veins with formaldehyde. He wanders down to his own room, takes off all his clothes, turns off all the lights and slips under the duvet so he can lay in the dark and calculate where he had deduced wrongly and, more importantly, what he should do now. 

It was difficult. John’s heterosexuality was unexpected and Sherlock had failed to make a contingency plan. Of greater concern at this moment – at least for Sherlock – was that somewhere, somehow, he’d made a mistake. 

So he revisited his primary conclusions: 

1\. John was bisexual with a particular predilection for confident rebellious men.  
2\. John was privately comfortable with his bisexuality and had acted on it.   
3\. John’s behaviour with Major Sholto confirmed that. 

Wrong, wrong and wrong. 

Then he tackled the secondary conclusion:

4\. John hadn’t acted on Sherlock because Sherlock gave him no indication to do so. 

Wrong. 

Everything was wrong because now, with the coast clear and both of them at very relaxed stages of their life, John chose – once more – to date another woman. Not Sherlock. 

John, the evidence suggested, actually wasn’t inclined to love Sherlock, at least not in the manner Sherlock desired. 

As the slow dark minutes ticked by, Sherlock carefully examined each bleak aspect of his loss. By ten thirty he had concluded the worse thing that could happen was that John would leave Baker Street. To prevent this, Sherlock decided he must employ every single thing he could to keep John happy at Baker Street. This meant no interfering of dates, no deducing of dates unless they appeared to pose a serious threat to John’s safety and no criticisms of dates. Also: learn the dates’ names. 

He must not undertake any ogling of or interference with John. 

He would have to make John tea sometimes. Drugging John was now out of the question, unless there were exceptional dangerous circumstances that would be alleviated by John being drugged. Science was no longer an excuse to drug John. 

John was home not long before midnight. There were tiny squeaks in the hall, the old floorboards releasing and contracting as he looked around for Sherlock.   
He carefully opened the bedroom door and stood hesitating in the dark, wondering if the mound there really was his flatmate. 

“Sherlock?” John said quietly. “You okay?” 

Better to answer than to have John assuming something was actually wrong. 

“Yes. Tired.” 

John considered this. It seemed implausible, but, he decided, bound to happen sometimes. “Right. See you in the morning.” 

Once the door was shut gently, Sherlock went back to his sad calculations. 

Upstairs, the allegedly heterosexual and irrefutably sad John slowly disrobed and hung up his date clothes. He had waited all night for Sherlock to disrupt his date. He checked his phone thirty three times, and when he wasn’t doing that his eyes darted towards the door of the restaurant, hardly hearing what Fiona was saying. 

Not that it mattered. Fiona was monumentally boring. She wasn’t interested in criminals or shooting things or hearing about Afghanistan or how brilliant John’s flatmate was. She was interested in running marathons, cooking elaborate cakes and the re-introduction of capital punishment. She made John lonely for Sherlock. 

John had so looked forward to Sherlock’s snark when he came home but Sherlock, it seemed, didn’t care. 

Downstairs, Sherlock heaved under the weight of his care. He was finalizing the conclusion that John’s heterosexuality left him in no man’s land and that he had little choice but to go back to being nothing, like he was before he met John. 

Sherlock grimaced inwardly. Reverting to the unloved and unloving man he had once been seemed out of his skill set now. That’s the problem with love, Sherlock realised. Once you’ve had a taste it’s impossible not to look forward to the next hit. It is indeed a chemical imbalance, not unlike that of narcotic dependence. 

He tries to conjure up some positive thoughts. Maybe I could fall in love with someone else. Another man might like me.

Sherlock sighs into his pillow. As if. 

Who would want a boyfriend like me, he thinks miserably. I’ve never had proper sex. I wouldn’t know how to initiate proper sex with someone. I am a rubbish gay man. I don’t even know how to kiss someone I like. 

He thought of kissing Janine, shuddering as he remembered how cold his lips had felt afterwards as her saliva dried on the delicate tissue. John’s saliva would be warm and coat his mouth like honey. 

Sherlock bit his lip and focused on the problem at hand. 

He was still wide awake in the same bundled position at four forty-three the next morning. He had concluded nothing more except that he loved John, was pained by this love and wanted more than anything to remain John’s best friend as long as he could, before he was usurped by the next dangerous woman who would drive John to despair as easily as Mary had. 

On this sombre morning, Sherlock knew also that it would be would be disastrous for heterosexual John to have any clue that Sherlock was in pain. A silent getaway was needed. 

So while his best friend tossed and turned upstairs, Sherlock showered, washed his hair in Redken Soft, coated his hair with conditioner until the comb slipped effortlessly through the wet curls, soaped and rinsed his body twice, dried his skin vigorously with a rough linen towel, slipped into clean navy underpants, stared at himself with slight revulsion in his bedroom mirror, buttoned a sharp black suit over a crisp buttercup coloured shirt and tied neat bows on his shiny black shoes. 

John didn’t even hear Sherlock leave the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

London is wheezing and groaning in the early morning. There are a few hardy souls starting their busy days and a few diehards still grasping at the remnants of the night before. 

Sherlock’s on Islington Road near Angel Station, observing the early risers, snacking on small capsules of deduction while he looks for somewhere relatively inoffensive where he might get a proper pot of tea. 

“Sherlock!” he hears someone call from across the road. “Sherlock!”   
The calls are getting more urgent and a little louder. He looks amongst the people around him, half interested, but there are no familiar faces. 

Across the road there's a tall man in a smart tracksuit with a head of grey hair streaked in shades of purple that’s been pulled back into a shaggy tail and secured with a length of sparkly elastic. The man is running across the road, oblivious to the traffic, his calls growing louder. 

Sherlock doesn't immediately recognise him but, as the man approaches, remembers what prison can do to you. 

“Sherlock!”

"Hello, Billy," Sherlock says warmly. "Why aren't you in prison?" 

"Appeal! My brief got all three convictions overturned on a technicality. She's amazing!" 

Billy Kinkaid, known by police, assorted criminals, families of the deceased and London journalists as the Camden Garroter, has been a free man for three days. In that time he has eaten three pizzas, four curries and eight servings of hot chips because if there's something you miss in prison, it’s good fast food. Right now, Billy has a hankering for a kebab. 

"A technicality? It would have had to have been intrinsically technical", says Sherlock. 

Billy nods with a grave face.

"It was extremely technical. An error in law, if you please. Basically she told them that the prosecution hadn't proved that the same person used the three cords in the murders and the judges had to agree. That meant there was reasonable doubt that I had actually done any of them and that meant the convictions couldn't be upheld. So they overturned the convictions and ordered a retrial. And they had to release me!"

Sherlock is impressed. "The law's a blunt instrument." 

"Sure is.” Billy’s smile is wide as he cuffs Sherlock on the arm with true affection. “So good to see you! I heard you died." 

"I did, for a while." 

"How was that for you?" 

"Pretty straightforward, all things considered. To be honest Billy, I've found the coming back to life thing much harder." 

"It always is," Billy says thoughtfully. "I, ah, heard your doctor got married and unmarried." 

Sherlock presses his lips together tightly before he answers. "Yes, Doctor Watson was married over a year ago, but they’ve split up and now he’s back at Baker Street. How did you know?" 

"Well, he’s doctoring down at Wormwood now, isn’t he? You know what the prison grapevine's like. Me and the boys were talking about it just the other week. I thought, as did some of the lads, that you and the doctor were special friends." 

Sherlock is well aware that Billy has had a number of special friends of his own over the years. That Billy might make that assumption is not unexpected. 

"Well, I rather ..." but Sherlock thinks the better of it. Billy, though, can hear the pain in Sherlock’s voice. 

"I'm around for at least a month," Billy says with true concern. "Do you want me to fix it for you?" He holds up both fists and tightens an invisible cord. 

“No!” The thought is appalling. “No, but thanks for the thoughtfulness. Doctor Watson and I are just good friends.”

"Still," says Billy. "You've always been the picky one when it comes to a special friend."

"Not really my area," Sherlock says sadly. "Married to my work and all that." 

"We're all married to our work. A good job's important, but you have to make time for special friends." 

Sherlock’s eyes spark briefly. "Why?" 

“Because they keep you sane. And they make you special too." 

It's true, and Sherlock knows it. He never feels so special as he does when he’s with John Watson. 

"I'm not really cut out for special friends, Billy. I don't have many skills in that area." 

"Oh.” Billy has to think about that for a few seconds before he realises Sherlock is more quaint that he thought. “Oh! Well, it's always the ones you least expect. I figured you were quite the bedwarmer but now I think about it, you're not the one for flirting and groping." 

Sherlock is curdling with embarrassment. Billy, a kindly soul when he's not hell bent on garroting someone, is considering Sherlock’s issues when he suddenly understands the real problem. 

“Straight boy pain, isn’t it?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Straight boy pain. Don’t worry, we all get it at least once.” 

Sherlock is unerringly polite. “I’m not sure I understand.” 

“When a gay man falls in love with a straight man and hopes against hope that the straight man might reciprocate. Meanwhile the straight man just thinks that they’re just good friends and has no idea that every straight thing he does fucks the gay man up. It’s no one’s fault, it’s just one those ugly things that happen.” 

It is, thinks Sherlock, a perfect diagnosis of the current situation. John has no idea how much his rejuvenated dating life has wounded Sherlock; he has no idea how badly Sherlock longs to be his boyfriend. At the same time John, Sherlock knows, would never cause him deliberate hurt. 

Straight Boy Pain is what I have, and John Watson gave it to me. 

Billy is regarding Sherlock with great compassion. 

"You know,” he says after a bit, “I think you should meet my friend Ademar Silver." 

"No, definitely not." Sherlock is quite brusque. "I don't need to meet anyone right now." 

"No, calm down, I’m not trying to set you up. Ademar's a tom. A really good one who looks just like an accountant. Actually, he was an accountant before the bank retrenched him. Turned out to be much better at tomming. He's not like your ordinary tom though, all blow dried and wearing tight pants. He's a special tom, does all kinds of therapy with you. Works miracles." 

A miracle would be nice, Sherlock thinks. A very big miracle. Not nearly enough miracles these days. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Yeah, do that.” What Sherlock thinks is of no consequence because Billy has already thumbed through his wallet and handed over Ademar’s business card, and has decided to send Ademar a text. Billy likes Sherlock and thinks he of all people would benefit from a real miracle. Can’t hurt. “Anyway, best get going. I’ve got a craving for falafel and Lebanese pickles. Sing out if you need any favours!” 

Billy makes another rope-pulling gesture with wild enthusiastic eyes. Sherlock half-smiles, half-winces.

“Thank you, Billy.” 

Sherlock studies the business card as he walks slowly in the other direction, wondering what a miracle might feel like. 

 

Back home, John is slumped over the table, nursing a cup of tea and staring at twenty eight feathers lined up from shortest to longest. Just trying to work out why Sherlock needed twenty eight feathers fills him with love. Every senseless thing about Sherlock makes him feel this way. 

He’s not worried that Sherlock is absent, not exactly. A little concerned, maybe. 

Where are you? 

he taps on his phone. 

 

The reply pings back in a matter of seconds. 

On my way to speak with an old orthonologist friend. Researching psittacosis. Need some more feathers. SH

John chuckles with relief. My industrious little chicken, he thinks fondly. 

Will I see you some time today? 

Of course. Home later. And yes, a cup of tea would be lovely. Milk no sugar. SH 

Milk no sugar and a clip under the ear

John fires back. He’s very relieved. 

 

Sherlock, meanwhile, is knocking on Ademar Silver’s door. It turns out that Straight Boy Pain is a horrible affliction, and Sherlock has decided he would like to be cured.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. 

Ademar Silver is a pleasant chap. He has sandy hair that flops neatly across his square head and inoffensive blue eyes. His smile is shy and his thinking is considered. On first meeting, people wonder if he is thick or perhaps managing a learning disability. Neither is true – Ademar just likes to take his time when he thinks things through. 

Ademar has been tomming for four years so is nonplussed that a client has appeared so early in the day. He assesses Sherlock with calm eyes. “You must be Sherlock,” he says eventually. 

“I am. Did Billy warn you?” 

“He told me you might drop by, yes. Please come in. Would you like a cup of tea?” 

Sherlock stands with his hands behind his back and looks around the room. Has a cleaner. Has seen four clients in the last twenty four hours. Does yoga. Was recently caring for a friend’s dog. Large dog. Large shorthair dog. Was raised by one parent. Interested in astrology. Sun in Taurus, moon in Aquarius. Collects mid 20th century English china. Travelled to Hong Kong as a teenager. Likes someone called Morrissey. 

Ademar calls from the kitchen. “Please. Take a seat.”

Ademar’s tea is not as good as John’s, but the flat is tidy and decked out in modern, somewhat stylish furniture. It smells of eucalyptus, which is one of the few herbal scents that will override the heavy bleach fragrance of semen. 

Sherlock feels comfortable there. 

Ademar hands Sherlock a Wedgwood mug filled with hot tea and sits down opposite him. “So,” he starts. “Straight Boy Pain.” 

Sherlock doesn’t look up. “Yes.” 

“It’s awful, isn’t it,” Ademar says gently. 

“Hideous.” 

“I understand completely. “

Sherlock takes a deep breath but doesn’t look up. “Can you make it go away?” 

Ademar tips his handsome head slightly to the left and Sherlock sees a small whisper of pity in his eyes. “No, not completely. But I can I help you work with it, and I can help you manage it so you don’t risk ruining your friendship with your flatmate. Do you feel comfortable telling me his name?” 

“John.” 

Oh! Doctor Watson! Ademar and every other gay man in London have always wondered. 

“Okay. Do you think you’re in love with John?” 

It’s rather like unlocking chains and feeling the relief as limbs move with ease again. “Yes, I think I am.” 

“How long have you loved John?” 

“I think from the second time I met him.” 

“Tell me about that time.” Ademar smiles encouragement as he draws his strong legs under him. 

“He was coming to look at the flat we ended up sharing. I liked him when I first met him, the day before, but when I saw him the second time, waiting at the door, I liked him a lot more. I’d looked forward to seeing him again all day. He had a limp and he was angry.” 

“Angry because his leg hurt?” 

“No, he’s just naturally angry, like a highland terrier. He really loved the flat. He kept looking around and I wanted him to say yes so badly. I’m never like that with people. I didn’t even need a flatmate. I don’t know why I chose him. I just liked him when I saw him.” 

“Is he handsome?” 

For the first time Sherlock smiles naturally as he stares into his tea. “Yes. He’s very handsome. His features are very even, and they all denote intelligence – high wide forehead, ears set above the line of his eye brows, thick eye brows too, very clear eyes, wide mouth, strong nose, and fair hair. And he’s in very good condition – broad chest, strong legs.” 

“He sounds delicious,” Ademar said. 

“He’s not delicious. French pastries are delicious, so are hot chips with aioli. John is far too masculine to be delicious. He’s handsome.” 

“Handsome,” Ademar agrees. “So you started living together that day?” 

“He moved in pretty much the next day,” Sherlock remembers. “But he went on a case with me first.” 

Ademar reads the papers. He knows all about Holmes and Watson going on cases. “Did he help?” 

“Absolutely. He was an enormous help. He always provides invaluable assistance on every case we do together. He’s a an experienced and very skilled doctor, and he acts like a conductor of light.” 

Ademar has no idea what this means. For some alarming seconds he wonders if John actually conducts electricity for Sherlock. “A conductor of light?” 

“Yes, exactly. John doesn’t make deductions, but he interprets things, or re-evaluates things I may have dismissed, or taken on face value. Other times he can provide a vital fact that will substantiate a complex theory. And he blogs about me. I never asked him to do that, he just started writing about our cases so that I would get the credit for solving them instead of the police.” Sherlock ponders that for a moment, how John’s generous conducting of light had illuminated Sherlock for the world to see and admire. “He is very supportive of me.” 

“He’s a great friend,” Ademar says. 

“He’s my best friend,” Sherlock says proudly. “And I his. I was his best man. He asked me to be his best man because I was, he said, his best friend.” 

Ademar smiles. He had always thought Sherlock Holmes would be far more sophisticated. He wondered briefly how the best friend John couldn’t be in love with this beguiling man. 

“So he got married? That must have been hard for you.” 

Sherlock halts, shifts uncomfortably on his seat. “Yes.” 

“But you did it.” 

“I had too! John has never asked me for anything, except to not be dead, but obviously I wasn’t able to do that at the time because I had to save his life. But to be his best man – there is no way I would have refused him. I - he was very hurt when I faked my death. More hurt than I ever imagined. I didn’t realise that until I saw him again. I had to make it up to him. He was furious. I was terrified I would never see him again.” Sherlock stops, baulks at how much he is sharing, but when he tries reign himself in realises how much better he feels. It’s miraculous, so he continues. “I can’t accept a life where John Watson isn’t my friend, so I did what ever I could to show him that. I wanted his wedding to be perfect. I wanted him to know that what made him happy made me happy.” 

“But it didn’t make you happy.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. 

“Did you get on with his wife?” 

“Not really. She was quite friendly and very clever but she was duplicitous and she shot me, very badly, on one occasion. I had to make up some lies about it so John wouldn’t break up with her because she was pregnant – that is, she was pretending to be pregnant – and John was looking forward to being a father. He’s always wanted to have a nice wife and a family.” Sherlock considered this and made an amendment. “Actually, I think he wanted to see if he’d like a nice wife and a family but it turned out he didn’t much, and in any case she wasn’t a very nice wife.” 

“Did she shoot anyone else?” Ademar wonders. 

“Oh, all the time. But she only shot me once, and she never shot John. Not that she would have tried, because he’s a great shot too and in any case if she’d hurt a hair on his head I would have pursued her to the bounds of hell. And she knew that.” 

Ademar takes a deep breath. “She pretended to be pregnant?” 

“She fooled us all. John caught her in the prosthesis. It was very messy. The situation, I mean. He left her and she’s now in South Africa, I believe.” 

“So now he’s living with you again.” 

“Yes. And dating women. Again.” Sherlock finishes his tea. The pain, he’s certain, has eased a little. He looks quickly at the pattern on the mug and notes it is Raspberry Cane. He’s rather fond of Wedgwood china. 

“Well, I think we should move on to the next stage of our treatment.” 

Sherlock, who has found the session very beneficial so far, is co-operative. 

“What should I do?” 

“Just close your eyes, lean back, relax, and think about John.” 

That is no effort for Sherlock. He is always thinking about John in one way or another. He shuts down all the other active files in his head and puts John, cheerful and wearing a striped t-shirt, at the centre of his thoughts. 

Just as he starts to lose awareness of his surroundings, he can feel a careful hand unfastening his trousers. Sherlock keeps very still, curious as to what may happen and, if he’s honest with himself, not unwilling to enjoy a bit of fondling. 

“Did you want John to do this for you?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says in a low voice, “Very much.”

“Well, keep your eyes closed and imagine that I’m John doing this.” 

“Will it help?” 

“Just relax. Don’t speak.” 

Ademar gently loosens the trousers and runs his hands over Sherlock’s expensive navy blue briefs. He can feel his patient is responding very quickly, his penis thickening under the touch and the legs shifting to facilitate access. 

Sherlock’s breath grows shallow and he tips his face back. This is what he imagined it would be like if John were to touch him. John would be confident and wise and handle him with perfect pressure because he’s a doctor and has a penis of his own and knows what feels good. Sherlock trembles slightly as his underpants are tugged down his thighs and his lips part, wettened by his tongue as the skilled hands stroke his expanding erection to full capacity. He cries out softly when he feels Ademar’s mouth, still warm from the tea, slide over the tip and suck deftly at the delicate folds of his foreskin. 

It’s marvelous, just like John would do for him. Before Sherlock can structure his fantasy his pelvis is pushing outwards, his eyes jammed shut when he feels his balls being cupped and very lightly rolled while Ademar sucks him with perfect rhythm. 

It’s all over little too soon. The pleasure mounts and peaks with ridiculous speed. Sherlock wants to grab something to keep himself steady and in his mind reaches for John’s shoulders and this lets him see John’s fair head dipping in and out of his lap, the hot sensation flushing through his veins and settling on his skin like ashes from a fire as he comes quickly, mouth open and head turned to one side, silent and endlessly grateful. 

 

Sherlock is in a wonderful mood when he gets home. Ademar not only gave him some much-needed relief but also provided all kinds of helpful advice. There’s no shame, he told him. John is a wonderful person, it is no surprise you fell in love with him. Don’t be ashamed of yourself. Continue to love John, but concentrate on channeling that love into your friendship. Keep reminding yourself how important the friendship is to you. Focus on making your friendship stronger everyday. We’ll exorcise your physical yearnings for John here and soon they’ll start to fade. As your yearnings for John decrease, you’ll be able to start looking for a partner, a man with whom you can have a wholly fulfilling relationship. Come and see me whenever you want. 

“Hallo!” John is happy to see his best friend. “Did you get your feathers?” 

Sherlock never lies so well as when he caught on the hop. “No – it turns out I don’t need them! Professor Cowan said I have all the residue and necessary bacteria I need with the feathers I’ve got. Did I show you my feathers?” 

“I saw them this morning. Where did you get them all?” John has an endearing vision of Sherlock charming feathers from the pigeons in St James Park. 

“I collected them over the last couple of days, all except the swan.” He holds up a long elegant feather the exact shade as shaved ice. “Professor Cowan gave me that one last week. He had some spare swallow feathers too, but I was actually able to get a couple of them myself. Have you ever seen a swallow’s nest, John? They’re an engineering marvel, considering they’re made almost wholly with their beaks.” 

John smiles as Sherlock prattles on about the difficulty encountered by urban birds in harvesting good quality mud. Once again he is reminded of the endless facets of Sherlock’s remarkable mind, and the thousands of colours that shine from it with his every thought.


	4. Chapter 4

John’s next date is Caroline, an aggressive little brunette obsessed with television shows and determined to marry a doctor. Caroline met John in the café where he buys his morning coffee and she is, John is certain, the type of woman who will provoke a strong reaction from Sherlock.

John arranges to have Caroline collect him from 221b for their first date. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock says when he answers the door. His eyes pass over her quickly and the deductions rise through his brain like bubbles in champagne.   
New dress from Whistles, marked down because of that tiny mark on the neckline. Wearing jewellery she borrowed from her flat mate. Used to have four piercings in each ear, now has only one – new job, or looking for a professional mate. Applied her lipstick on the way over. Chain shop lipstick. Barry M, they use those heavy pigments. Quite flattering. Didn’t use a mirror. Wearing an odd perfume that smells something like Miss Balmain but more recent. Powdery, violets – maybe L’Instant Magic? It was a gift – she wouldn’t choose that kind of perfume for herself. Carrying a bottle of water and a magazine. Obviously travelled a great distance. What is she doing here? 

“You must be Sherlock! John told me all about you.” Caroline turns her face a little in a manner to mimic coyness. “I’ve seen you in the papers. That story your girlfriend wrote.”

Sherlock’s heart sinks. A date. Another one. He reminds himself that John is his best friend and that he loves him dearly. 

“Forgive my rudeness. Do come in.” 

John appears at that moment. He is wearing a blue shirt with dark trousers and looks rather handsome. He is also wearing the Serge Luten scent Sherlock gave him for Christmas last year and it smells – as Sherlock knew it would – sublime on his skin. 

“Caroline! Lovely to see you. I see you’ve met Sherlock.” 

Sherlock gathers all his strength to produce a natural, charming smile.

“We have. Caroline, might I get you something to drink? We’re not stocked for guests but I could rustle up some whiskey or maybe”– 

John interrupts quickly. 

“No, we’re fine. I’ve made reservations at Angelo’s for 8pm, so we should get going.”

Sherlock’s heart endures another spear of misery. “Angelo’s?” 

John smiles. “Thought you’d be impressed!” 

Angelo’s was their place. It’s where they went after the hardest cases, or the most frustrating cases, or when they felt like a hot meal and some pieces of the best garlic bread in London. 

And now John is taking whatshername in her floury perfume and sale rack dress to their place. 

Sherlock took a breath and manufactured another smile, this time a delighted one. 

“Oh, you’re sure to have a great time. Do give my regards to Angelo, if he’s on tonight.” 

“Oh! Is there a real Angelo?” Caroline asked. 

“Yes. He is a personal friend of mine and John’s, so you should enjoy wonderful service tonight.” 

John’s heart is crowded with doubt. This isn’t right. Sherlock shouldn’t be so happy. Angelo’s is ours. Caroline should irritate him. Why is he being so gracious? 

 

Caroline talks about celebrities and television programs all the way to the restaurant. John has no idea who’s she’s talking about or why she is so obsessed with the tedious, possibly false, details of their life. He is thinking only of Sherlock, and his complete lack of interest in John’s love life. 

While Caroline leaves no stone unturned as she describes the intricate plot of Game of Thrones, John does some calculations of his own. He can’t work out where he went wrong. He has no idea as to how he might attract Sherlock and thought that if he could provoke him sufficiently, emotional contact might ensue from a confrontation. John could then assess if Sherlock really did love him as much he started to suspect he might. If they could have an argument about his dates and then make up, John could admit his feelings. 

But it’s not working. 

“And then the whole family was murdered. At a wedding! Can you believe it? I went mental.” 

John is staring at Caroline across the table, his attention fading in and out of her appraisal of Game of Thrones. There’s a candle between then that flickers briefly before it stutters and dies in the onslaught of Caroline’s endless chatter. John isn’t sure why people died at a wedding. He thought those kinds of things only happened to him. 

At home, Sherlock is once more looking at John’s socks, idly pressing a finger to his lips and planting a little kiss on each pair. 

When he gets downstairs, he texts Ademar Silver. Ademar answers quickly: 

I’m here and have no clients. Come on over.

 

For Sherlock’s second round of therapy, Ademar gives him a refresher course on the intricacies and delights of frottage, as well as some handy tips on substitutes for lubricant. It is even more beneficial than the first round.


	5. Chapter 5

A few nights later Sherlock answers the door to a woman who may be the owner of the most astonishing breasts in Britain. They are sitting upright on a short, beautifully rounded blonde and are barely contained in her short red dress. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks, feeling as if he is being watched by both the woman and her breasts. 

“John Watson home?” she asks coarsely. 

Another date. 

“He is indeed,” Sherlock confirms with a practiced smile. “Please come up.” Her thin high heels make sharp little taps as they climb the old stairs. 

“I see you’ve met Annette!” John is wearing a dark suit and Sherlock can see the tiny soft ridges in his fair hair where the comb has been. Once again he smells of the Serge Luten cologne and Sherlock fancies that the rich scent shimmers in the low light of the flat. 

“Yes, I have indeed.” 

Annette, part showgirl, part temptress and fulltime microbiologist, sparkles like cut crystal. Sherlock finds himself looking at the largely uncovered expanse of her breasts, wondering where the scars are. 

“Aren’t they great?” Annette says without a hint of shyness. “Cost me six thousand quid.” 

Sherlock quickly assesses her shoes and deduces she can only mean her breasts. 

“They’re absolutely splendid,” he says. 

John sniffs slightly. “Well, we’re off to hear the London Symphony Orchestra, and then to that new place in Soho for some dancing.” 

Sherlock’s endures yet another stab to the heart. He loves orchestral performances. He adores dancing. He looks much better in red than this cheesy blonde. 

“That sounds like the perfect date,” is the best he can manage with his pasted on smile. “I hope you both have a wonderful evening.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Annette, hitching up her dress a little and causing momentous movement in the rippling lycra. “I hate classical music – more of a Billie Holiday dame myself - but John reckons it’ll be fun.”

John, who has been watching carefully for any kind of disconcordance from Sherlock, is suddenly aware he has to spend the entire evening with this formidable woman. “Do you want to come?” he finds himself asking, sounding a little desperate. 

“No, you two don’t want me hanging around like the proverbial gooseberry. Lovely to meet you Annette, and I hope you have a memorable night.” 

“See ya”, she says loudly as she stamps back down the stars in her spindly heels. 

John follows but looks up at Sherlock, curiously disappointed. 

Sherlock’s unable to eliminate the impossible and therefore cannot deduce what probable thing made John suddenly reluctant to go on his date. 

The thought was interesting for a moment but after a few seconds it just made the pain worse. Pain management was needed. 

Sherlock waits for half an hour before he text Ademar Silver. It transpires that Ademar’s friend Penny the beautician is visiting but he invites Sherlock over anyway. Penny the beautician is lots of fun. She gives Sherlock a free pedicure and offers to thread his eyebrows. He takes the pedicure, because he always wondered what they might be like, but passes on the eyebrow shaping. 

Penny files away at his callouses and paints Sherlock’s toes a deep dark blue that is flecked with little glints of silver. He chose the colour because it was called Constellation and sounded like science. 

After she leaves, Ademar talks to him about his burgeoning sexuality, and explains to him the intricacies of topping and bottoming. 

“Do I have to pick a side?” Sherlock wonders. 

“No. Some gay men prefer one or the other, some like both, some like neither. But that’s something we can explore next time. I thought tonight we might do some warm-up exercises that work for a top, bottom or versatile gay man.” 

Sherlock is intensely curious. He puts John at the centre stage of his thoughts, luxuriating in the slow strokes of Ademar’s fist, flinching instinctively as Ademar’s thick fingers slowly slip behind his scrotum and stroke the dense muscles of his perineum. 

The lesson is an easy one and a thrilling appetizer.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s awkward in the flat the next morning. The two best friends avoid one another’s eyes over the breakfast table. Sherlock is uncertain what kind of best-friend question he should ask about the lady with the enormous breasts (several things come to mind - could you see the scars? Were they warm to the touch? Would it be possible to assess the weight of them individually? – but he dismisses them in case they sound sexist and nasty), and John can’t stop staring at Sherlock’s dark blue toe nails as they twinkle in the changing light. 

They’re both very relieved when Mrs Hudson shows Detective Inspector Lestrade in into the flat. She stops short when she sees the flashes of dark blue.

“Oh Sherlock! Look at your lovely toes! Did you do that?” 

He straightens and smiles proudly. It’s nice to be complimented. “No, I had a pedicure.” 

Mrs Hudson leans over a little to get a closer look. “What beautiful colour! It really suits you. What it’s called?” 

Everyone looks down at Sherlock’s pale creamy feet and the deep dark toenails. Tension and an unrecognizable fear knot John’s shoulder and neck muscles into hard little mats. 

“Constellation. It’s the latest Chanel. Limited edition. You have to get on a waiting list.” 

“It’s very becoming,” Detective Inspector Lestrade says, not at all surprised. “So. You got time for an aggravated robbery?”

John nods. Sherlock tears his eyes away from his toenails. “Depends. Exegesis, please.”

Lestrade squints, his mouth soft and slightly ajar. 

“Explain the case,” John says politely. 

“Ah. Chemist in the Highgate Village. Masked assailant stormed in with a sawn off shot gun and made all kinds of threats.”

Sherlock puts his nose in the air and speaks in his most haughty voice. “At this stage Lestrade, I wouldn’t even read it if I saw it on the front page of the paper,” although that’s not strictly true. “You’re going to have to provide me with more details – preferably fascinating ones – if you’d like my assistance. Otherwise, I am certain that even your stumbling troupe could sort it out.” He looks back down at his toes and wriggles them a little. They really do look like tiny scraps of a glorious night sky. 

Lestrade takes a deep breath. He’s come prepared and left the best until last. “Well, I don’t know if it’s fascinating, but I for one am intrigued that it is the fourth robbery of its kind in less than a week, that the assailant wore a coat and tails and a Hello Kitty mask AND that each victim – all of whom I might add are very unsettled – describe the assailant as being about fifteen years old.” 

“Victims of armed robberies are very susceptible to PTSD,” John notes rightly. “It’s extremely distressing to be threatened with a gun.” 

Sherlock looks up from his pretty toes and extends his hand to John. “Have we met? I’m Sherlock. You might remember visiting me in hospital after I was shot in the upper abdomen.” 

John rolls his eyes. “I’m not trying to teach you to suck eggs. I’m just saying that even though there isn’t a deranged serial killer committing an endless stream of locked room murders, this one is still serious. You should at least consider looking at it.” 

Sherlock allows himself a couple of seconds’ indulgence to think about sucking eggs, then makes his decision. 

“John is entirely right,” he declares and everyone gasps softly. “I should at least consider it. And now I have. Yes, inspector, take me to the latest crime scene and let’s see if I can help you.” 

“Great,” says Lestrade. “Car’s downstairs.” 

Sherlock is dismissive. “We’ll take a taxi. And I’ll put some street clothes on.” The thought fills him with disappointment because it will cover his toes. 

John is already halfway up the stairs. 

It is a far more interesting case than Sherlock expected. CCTV footage allowed him to deduce the suspect is a public school boy, and this was enforced by the latest victim’s recollections. Sherlock and John were able to view CCTV footage from previous robberies on Lestrade’s ipad and before it was finished, Sherlock was hailing a cab with John scrambling to keep up. 

Sherlock was uncommunicative for the entire trip, seemingly confirming small things on his phone while John watched the ancient streets of London speed by. He was not remotely interested in the armed robbery. All he could think of were Sherlock’s feet. Who painted his toenails? And why? 

The thought of someone touching Sherlock’s feet like that made him slightly unwell. 

After speaking to a mostly unhelpful headmaster and a slightly more forth coming Geography master, Sherlock has learnt the name of the possible suspect – Jeremy Dyson - and his best friend Tom. 

It’s Jeremy who Sherlock wants to target. John calls Lestrade, because Jeremy is only sixteen. Sherlock paid scant attention as John went on and on about young people’s rights. 

John, it transpires, was correct, and Lestrade forbids Sherlock to do anything before he can get there with a youth liaison officer. 

Sherlock paces up and down Jeremy’s street, swearing elegantly under his breath. John watches from the gate of the common. 

By the time Lestrade and the youth liaison officer have arrived, Sherlock has walked nearly three kilometers

Jeremy’s mother nervously let the small party into her handsome house. He’s a good boy, she told them over and over. I’m sure there’s been a mistake. 

Sherlock knew the moment a shamefaced Jeremy skulked down the stairs that there was no mistake. It was the same person he had seen on the CCTV footage. (Jeremy was also currently reading The Scarlet Letter, a rugby player and a voracious consumer of Weetabix. Sherlock mentally swatted at those useless deductions, catching them like flies and stuffing them in a mental folder.)

 

They all sat down around the dining room table. Sherlock starts.

“So. Jeremy. Why are you robbing chemists?” 

Jeremy has just turned 16. He appears, to John, to be all bones, a tall spare lad with straight brown hair and sad blue eyes. He is clean, neatly dressed and very nervous of the police and especially of Sherlock. 

“Dunno,” Jeremy says softly. 

John feels for the boy. He has had boys not much older in his command. He has been one. He knows how hard it is. John speaks with a pleasant smile as Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“One of your teachers told us you’re best friends with a lad called Tom.” 

Jeremy looks down and nods slightly. 

“Are you in the same year at school?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Same classes?” 

Jeremy shakes his head. “I do English, Art and History. Tom’s good at Maths.” 

“How old is Tom?” 

Jeremy shrugs. “Dunno. My age.” 

“How much have you robbed so far?” Sherlock asks. Something about Jeremy is very familiar and making him apprehensive. 

“About three hundred quid.” Jeremy is squirming, wholly mortified to have been caught and to be made explain, in front of his mother and the police, what he has done and why. 

His mother is furious. “For God’s sake, Jem, if you wanted something we would have given you the money!” 

“Where did you get the gun?” Lestrade asks, and Jeremy’s mother wails. 

“Made it at school in metalwork.” Jeremy barely whispers. At Lestrade’s insistence Jeremy fetches his weapon and places it on the table. It is a replica, nothing more. It has no shooting mechanisms. 

“Not a bad copy,” John says, handling the gun carefully and looking at the careful casting. “Where did you get the cast?” 

Jeremy doesn’t look up. 

“Jem, tell them how you made it. NOW.” 

They all listen carefully as Jeremy explains taking screen caps from movies and designing his own cast from the stills. 

Sherlock is profoundly bored with all of this. He has already deduced that the gun is immaterial. He looks around the kitchen, notices the Arabia dinner service on the shelf, files away the pattern for future reference, notes that the family had chicken wings and fried rice for dinner last night, watches John handling the fake gun and files away his beautiful facial expressions for future reference, looks at the youth worker’s handbag then promptly deletes it and finally, when there is nothing left to interest him, turns to Jeremy and talks over Inspector Lestrade. 

“Tell me exactly what you did with the money.” 

Jeremy looks like he might cry. “Bought an ipad,” he whispers. 

“But not for you,” Sherlock deduces. 

Jeremy shakes his head briefly. “I gave it to my friend Tom.” 

“That’s a generous gift.” 

Jeremy opens his mouth but is unable to explain it. John and Lestrade are filled with pity for this awkward adolescent, stealing money to buy a friend a present. 

Sherlock looks Jeremy over carefully and sees it for what it is. “Straight Boy Pain,” he concludes, and for the first time Jeremy looks up. 

“What?” everyone else says. 

Sherlock talks only to Jeremy in a surprisingly kind voice. “Straight Boy Pain. When a gay man falls in love with a straight man and the straight man doesn’t realise that every straight thing he does makes it worse for the gay man, because he thinks they’re only friends.” 

It is too much for Jeremy who, on hearing his pitiful plight made clear, breaks down in tears. 

Lestrade and John expect Sherlock to say some thing unfeeling and unnecessary, but sometimes he can surprise everyone. 

Sherlock leans in to Jeremy and places a large steady hand on his narrow shoulder. “The pain’s awful, isn’t it? You thought that buying Tom a gift might make him like you more. It’s an easy mistake to make. Don’t be embarrassed. It happens to all us all, at least once.” He waits until Jeremy looks up. “Think of it as a rite of passage. You’re going to be fine.” 

Lestrade and John look at one another. Sherlock just came out, they both tell each other without saying a word. 

“Oh Jeremy,” Mum says, opening her arms for her sobbing son. 

Sherlock watches them embrace and, for a fleeting second, envies Jeremy. 

So the case is solved quite quickly. Charges are not preferred. Jeremy’s mother commits to repaying all the chemists, Lestrade confiscates the faux gun, the youth worker stays to check that Jeremy will get support with this new stage of his life and John is agog in the taxi home. He hardly knows where to start, bouncing back from one fact to another. 

“Straight boy pain! Where did you hear about that?” 

Sherlock can feel the curiousity zapping from John’s skin. “An acquaintance of mine told me about it.” 

“The same acquaintance that painted your toenails?” 

“No. An acquaintance of a friend of his painted my toenails.” 

John gives up on trying to sort that and instead goes to the core of the matter. 

“How does this person know about straight boy pain?” 

“He’s a gay man,” Sherlock says casually, looking out the window at a couple walking three Airedale terriers. Three Airedales! Some people make their own problems. But they are lovely, what with those square snouts and walking along on tiptoes. “Apparently it happens to all gay men. And probably gay women, although obviously I don’t have the data for that.”

“Do you have straight boy pain?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

John is gob smacked. He wants all the details in chronological order but has no idea where to start. 

“So you’re gay?” 

Sherlock doesn’t turn around. Obviously, naturally, of course I am – all these things sit in a queue on his tongue. “Yes,” is all he says. 

“Right. Ah. Good. So who painted your toenails?” 

“A beautician who is a friend of the prostitute I’ve been seeing.” 

John halts as if he doused in ice water. “A prostitute? You’re seeing a prostitute? Is that for a case?” 

“No. Ademar is a gay man too. He’s – helping me be a gay man. I’ve come to the party a little late.” 

“Helping you?” The more information John gets, the more disjointed he becomes. “Why do you need help?” 

It spills out in an agitated stream. “Because. I haven’t had much experience with relationships and I thought that maybe I should try. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the most alluring of men. I repel people and I can’t always see why. My gift for repelling people wreaked havoc on my attempts to have relationships when I was young. I don’t see why I should miss out. Why do you date women? Because you enjoy the company, right? You don’t have a patent on loneliness, John.” 

John holds out one hand to placate his friend or maybe to just steady himself. “No, I didn’t – Sherlock, no. No. I’m not judging you. Not at all. I’m just curious to hear – well, you’ve never displayed any interest in relationships at all. Now you’ve got painted toenails and straight boy pain. And who is this Ademar exactly? What is he telling you?” 

“He’s just walking me through some very basic aspects of gay relationships that I would know if I had relationships like everyone else. We’re not breaking any laws and I’m not being defiled.” 

“What kind of basic aspects?” 

“Oral sex. Frottage.” 

John shudders with rage. “Well, that’s nice for you.” 

“Actually it is. I understand now why you go on dates, because the sexual satisfaction is nice.” 

It all falls on John like heavy boxes and he’s unable to reason his way out if it all. They continue the journey in silence. 

When they get home, John goes straight to the stove to get the kettle going and tries once more to learn about Sherlock’s pain. “Will you see this Ademar again?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock is crisp and formal. “I have to learn the politics of topping and bottoming.” 

Tremors ripple through John’s left hand. His leg starts to ache. 

“Oh,” is all he can answer. “Oh. Of course.” And when he’s processed it a bit, “Why do you need to learn that?” 

“Because I don’t know it. And I don’t want to wait around until I find someone I find tolerable who might teach me because the likelihood is I never will.” 

“Then why do you need to learn it?” 

“Because I want to. I might like it. Why do you want to date to date a woman with obviously enhanced breasts?” 

I wanted you to notice me, John almost says. “Who introduced you to Ademar anyway?” 

“John, I am completely bored with this conversation. If you have a problem with my sexuality, it will have to remain your problem because I am entirely uninterested.” Sherlock seats himself elegantly in his chair. “Milk, one sugar,” he adds. 

John ignores him. 

“Who gave you straight boy pain?” 

Sherlock breathes audibly through his nose. “A straight boy. And no, he didn’t do it on purpose and yes of course I realise that it is something I have to rectify, not him. Outside of those salient details, you are entitled to know no more. Now change the subject. Tell me about Bosomy Rose. Did you see the scars?” 

“No. She got bored during the performance and just got up and left me there.” 

“Did you stay?” 

“Of course. It was beautiful. “ John is carefully wringing out a tea bag, smiling to himself. Sherlock can’t take his eyes from him. “I love listening to orchestras. It really sounds different, hearing them live – you can hear how much they love playing.”

“Who were they playing?” 

“Vivaldi.”

Ah, Antonio. Sherlock is still for a moment as he rides a few lovely waves of the Summer, the first piece he was able to play through without error. When it passes, he drums his fingers impatiently on the armrests and wonders if Ademar can squeeze him in tonight. Figuratively and literally. 

John has made tea and carefully carries the cup to Sherlock. 

“Aren’t you having one?” 

He shakes his head. “No. Not really in the mood. I might go for a walk, I think.” 

“Why?” 

John shrugs. “I like walking. I want to walk for a bit. Clear my head.” 

“Have I sullied it?” Sherlock watches carefully for a response. 

“No. Not at all. It’s just a lot to take in. You think you know a person and then you find out they have straight boy pain.” John walks back to the kitchen to wipe the counter. “Sherlock, if someone’s led you on, or – you know, just been a dick to you, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” 

“Why do you need to know?” 

Because I want to kill them with my bare hands. I want to burn down their house and smash all the windows of their car. 

“I just want to be certain no one is … tormenting you.” 

Sherlock takes a dainty sip of his tea. It’s scalding, just as he likes it. The sugar tastes better when the tea is almost too hot to drink. 

“I’m fine, but thank you. Rest assured that if I need someone assaulted and feel unable to do it myself, you will be the first person I’ll call.” 

“Right.” John is slipping his jacket back on. “Well, I’ll be walking. I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock softly blows on his hot drink as he counts John’s fading footsteps.   
Nervous energy tangles in his belly as he realises his coming out is going to be a lot more awkward than anticipated. Sherlock can’t fathom exactly why John has reacted with such anxiety; this provokes several vague thoughts about their famous friendship disintegrating. 

The thoughts make him miserable but they won’t be banished. 

So Sherlock reaches for his phone and texts Ademar Silver, who is watching bad daytime TV and happy to host an impromptu session with Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

John is wandering around Marylebone Street, trying to put some shape to these revelations. It’s a waste of time, because the cause of his unhappiness is not Sherlock’s new identity, but that he, John, was not a factor in his discovery of that. 

“Jesus, I am pathetic,” John says quite loudly as he walks towards Charring Cross. A few people eye him warily and step imperceptibly out of his path. 

John’s thoughts are misshapen and relentless: All I want is a relationship. Sherlock all but married me himself at my wedding. He stares at me with sad eyes and does everything he can to ensure my wellbeing. It looked like love, it sounded like love. What is it, if not love? And who in the name of fucking fuck gave him straight boy pain? 

The walk is not helping. John’s leg hurts more and his rage is barely contained. His problems and concerns seem less manageable in the endless streets of London: John decides he needs to assess them in the confines of his room. 

He heads home as Sherlock is heading out. 

Where are you? 

John texts Sherlock when he arrives home to the silent flat. 

On my way to see Ademar

pings the response. 

John stands quite still for several seconds while a new storm of anger and jealousy rumbles through him. He stretches his fingers, looking around for something to break. Something glass, something large, something that will provide loud, satisfying indelible proof of its condition as it is destroyed.

His eyes pass over their lounge room until he spots Sherlock’s violin. Everything suddenly becomes precious and irreplaceable. 

“Don’t,” he cautions himself. “Do something practical. Wash dishes. Do a load of laundry.” 

There is only a cup in the sink so John opts for laundry. 

“What kind of fucking name is Ademar,” he says to the laundry bag as he gathers up clothes from his room. “Ademar, for fuck’s sake,” he growls as he stamps down the stairs to Sherlock’s room. Saying fuck turns out to be quite therapeutic so John continues to say it with a hard, clipped emphasis on the ck. 

“Fucking suits,” John says as he gathers up three pairs of beautifully tailored trousers from the floor of Sherlock’s room. “Fucking overpriced silk and cotton shirts hand finished by some fucking poncey tailor in Shoreditch. Fucking expensive suits made from the finest fucking wool from the nicest fucking sheep,” he continues. “Fucking business card, falling on my clean floor,” and as he bends to pick it up, his rage swells and pops like a blister. 

“Ademar fucking Silver,” he reads, editing it to suit his mood. “Ademar Silver and his fucking silver coloured business card, brainwashing my Sherlock. Oh, Really. Really.” 

It is then that John hears his own pain. 

He stands straight, holding the card in one hand and three pairs of trousers in the other, then tosses the clothes on to Sherlock’s bed and storms down the stairs, slamming the door behind him. 

He hails a cab, still clutching the card. 

“I want to go here,” John says to the taxi driver, leaning in the window and showing him Ademar Silver’s business card. 

The driver reads it carefully. “Hop in.”


	8. Chapter 8

“So obviously you haven’t discussed your sexuality with John before?” 

Ademar has made tea and is sitting on the couch with Sherlock. Today they are drinking from Doulton cups. Sherlock isn’t familiar with the pattern – he thinks it might be Autumn Leaves.

“I haven’t discussed with anyone,” Sherlock answers. “I wasn’t sure I had one until recently.” 

“And you’re certain John is straight.” 

“I couldn’t say for certain, but based on the evidence available to me, yes, I think he must be. Or at least he thinks he must be. It’s so hard to tell.” Sherlock is looking at Ademar’s bookcase. It’s been dusted and the books are in a different order. He casually goes through the list of scenarios that might have led to the bookcases being cleaned and re-stacked. He deduces it must have tipped over in the throes of some especially energetic client service. 

There is a tumultuous noise at the door. Someone appears to banging it with an open hand. 

“Yes?” Ademar says politely when finds John at his doorstep. 

John is no mood for any kind of niceness and walks straight past Ademar. “Sherlock!” he says loudly. 

“I’m right here,” Sherlock answers calmly from the couch. “What do you want?” 

John looks at him with intensity. Clothed, good. Not ruffled. Good. 

“You. Now. For a case. Lestrade called. There’s a case. Now.” 

Ademar is enchanted. He’s not certain, but it appears – 

“Why didn’t Lestrade call me?” 

John has no idea. “Are you coming?” 

“We can always do this another time,” Ademar reassures. “Go to your case, and come and see me tomorrow.” 

John’s jaw is set hard and he grinds his teeth when Ademar suggests this. 

Sherlock places his cup on the coffee table and swings forward, grabs his coat and pushes past John as he storms out the door. 

(“It was the only time I’ve seen it,” Ademar said to Billy Kinkaid a few weeks later when he visiting him in prison. “It was bi boy pain!” 

Billy’s delighted laugh is coated with phlegm from deep in his throat. He loves to help. “That’s my Sherlock! Always gets his man.”)

 

Sherlock waits until they are in the cab home before he looks at John. His eyes are hard and hurt. “What is your problem?” 

John bites his lip. It’s strangling him, this ropey snarl of fears and doubts, and at its beating heart gasps his conviction that Sherlock is his. He wants to tell him and he can’t bear to tell him because it could mean rejection and that, John believes, would be fatal. 

“Sherlock. It’s just - why can’t you talk to me about this?” 

Sherlock is in full flight, hands flaying. “Oh! What a great idea. Discuss my ignorance about my homosexuality with three continents not gay Watson! Forgive my naivety but why would I do that?” 

“I’m your friend,” John answers with a voice clogged with misery. “Your best friend.” 

 

Something in Sherlock snaps. It’s gone on too long. Fraud and deception are fine with people you don’t care about but this – it will strangle every lovely thing they have. “What is this about?” 

John, always the soldier, draws a breath and waits for his courage to come back. It takes a couple of seconds. 

“I want to know who gave you straight boy pain. Was it that professor with the feathers?” 

“Cowan? Don’t be a fool. Why do you want to know?” 

“I want to kill him.” 

This could not be more ridiculous, Sherlock decides. “Oh, do you.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, you’d be killing yourself.” 

John accepts the statement as a declaration of war. “What? You think I can’t take him down?” 

“You’re not listening.” It’s exhausting, all this feeling stuff. Sherlock resigns himself to risking everything because John as a source of pain is not acceptable. He wants to exonerate him and set them both free. He stares out the window where nothing is lovely and speaks softly. “I mean it literally. If you want to kill the man who gave me straight boy pain, you’d have to kill yourself.” 

And there it goes, all the lovely things that hurt so badly. 

He sees John’s fingers flexing and knows that he processing.

Kill yourself. Kill you. John inches through this carefully, spreading the words apart, joining them back together. Killing myself. Me. He means me. 

He means me. 

Sherlock watches John’s reflection in the window and sees that beautiful smile superimposed against the bleary shades of London, John’s understanding blooming slowly, first in his eyes, then through all the delicate muscles of his face., shy at first and then stretched out across his face, the illumination that he provides for Sherlock lighting up the space between them.

John turns to approach this sensitive topic the way he might counsel a patient who has waited too long to seek treatment for a simple ailment. He’s about to offer sweet-non threatening encouragement but he’s a good doctor who learnt early to treat the patient and not the disease, so discards his pre-packaged salve takes a leap to lay it all, scrambled and straight from his heart, at Sherlock’s feet. 

“Sherlock, you – you are the only person who has ever made me feel so - well, in love. I was attracted to you the moment I met you. I think you are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known. You mean everything to me and I would do anything for you. If you want me to cure your straight boy pain, I will, immediately and with great enthusiasm. Then I guarantee to keep you pain free for the rest of your life.” His gaze is steady, compelling. “And for the record, I know a lot more about sex than bloody Adeline Shivers or whatever his name is.” 

They are still too new, too raw, to watch as they hold their hearts to one another. 

So John watches Sherlock’s face reflected in the window as the cab inches across London Bridge. He knows he is being watched and won’t lift his eyes but it doesn’t matter. John knows the expression. It’s happiness, contentment, an expression Sherlock uses only when he’s sure that no one is watching. 

It fills John with confidence. 

“You should have told me I gave you straight boy pain. I could have told you that this is not one sided. It’s mutual. There’s no pain.”

Sherlock is still and silent so John tries another tact.

“Right. Well, my final diagnosis, in light of my clearer understanding of the cause, is that your straight boy pain isn’t straight boy pain at all. You’ve got a bad case of inflamed genius detective stubbornness with slight mitral stenosis.” 

Sherlock looks up sharply. “Mitral stenosis?” 

John shrugs one shoulder. “I just like saying mitral stenosis. And I wanted you to look at me.” 

They both laugh, their best kind of laughter, together, happy in a taxi after they’ve solved a case. 

John won’t be wasting time and flexes his fingers. “So … am I allowed to hold your hand?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answers, and he really doesn’t. He holds his hand out in front of him and wonders what it is like, to have some one take your hand and hold it. Why do people do that? What’s the point? 

John reaches over and closes his fingers over Sherlock’s palm. It looks nice. John’s hand is dry and warm. He folds his own fingers down over John’s and memorises each cuticle while he calculates how many days it’s taken to get to this small but critical point. 

“Okay?” John asks. 

“It looks nice, doesn’t it?” 

“It does. It feels nice too.” 

“One thousand, four hundred and sixty eight.” 

“What?” 

“One thousand, four hundred and sixty eight days to get to this point.” 

“It would have been about fourteen if you had told me your symptoms.” 

“They weren’t discernible until recently. In any case, you’re a doctor. You should have been checking.” 

“This is not my fault.” 

“Well, it’s certainly not mine.” 

“Actually it is.” 

“No it isn’t. If you were any kind of doctor you would have seen I was in pain, made a pass at me and not taken Bosomy Rose to the hear Vivaldi. Incidentally, did you do that to annoy me?” 

“Not so much to annoy you as to provoke a reaction from you.” John licks his lips and makes his confession. “My cunning plan was to have you react badly, then we could have a fight and hopefully I would have then been able to take you my arms and kiss you.” 

Sherlock is confused. “Did you seriously believe that was going to work?” 

“I was hopeful it was going to work because I couldn’t think of any thing else.” 

“Why couldn’t you have just said, ‘Sherlock, you are sublime?’ “

John smiles and squeezes the long fingers. “I always says, ‘Sherlock, you are sublime” when I speak to you but it’s usually subtext.”

It’s the right thing to say. 

There isn’t much to add, so Sherlock spends their happy silence watching their clasped hands and congratulating himself, for his original deductions were actually correct.


	9. Chapter 9

Mrs Hudson is waiting for them when they get home. She stands at her door with a very large cooler box. It appeared to John to be the type used by hospitals to transport donated organs. 

“Oh, there you are, Sherlock! A big parcel came for you!” 

“Ah. Excellent. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” 

He seems to know what’s inside and takes the oversized foam container that is sitting on her doorstep. 

“It’s so heavy! I daren’t think what you might have inside it. What are you up to now?” 

“I’m collecting bricks,” he says with guileless sincerity. 

“Oh! Well, don’t you be leaving gravelly bits in my carpet. Hello, John love. Nothing for you, I’m afraid.” 

“Never mind. Maybe Sherlock will share his bricks.” 

She laughs and rests a playful hand on his arm as he turns to follow Sherlock up the stairs. “You never know your luck!” 

John waits until they’re at the front door and out of earshot. “Are they really bricks?” 

“John,” Sherlock says as he unlocks the door, “Before we go on, I need to know something.” 

“What?” 

“Did Lestrade call us for a case?” 

“No, of course not. I made that up on the spur of the moment.”

“Good. That’s - good. “ Sherlock sets the ice box down near the fridge and looks towards his room, certain of where he would like to go but needing a little encouragement to get there. “So do we - I mean, have we got some time to ourselves?” 

“Well, I suppose we have.” 

“Would you … do you want to do some experiments with me?

“If you mean with chemicals and bricks, no, not really. But if you want to experiment with me in there” – John leans his head towards Sherlock’s bedroom – “the answer is yes. Yes.” He holds Sherlock’s eyes and his face softens as he adds an important clause. “Except it’s not an experiment, is it? It would be love making.” 

“Well, it’s an experiment in a way because I’m not certain what the outcome will be, but of course I know exactly what I’m doing.” Sherlock’s talking too fast and his eyes are bright with anticipation. 

They lean a little into each other’s space and between them can smell skin, sandalwood, tannin, freshly laundered cotton, the metallic salt of London air and coconut oil. “Well,” John smiles, “since you’re so eager, why don’t you show me what Ambling Sidebar taught you?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yes. Although I’m certain I’ll only have to correct it all. May as well make sure you know the right way to be gay sooner rather than later.” 

“But you’re not gay.” 

The room is still and quiet; it seems like the whole world stops to hear the response. 

John crinkles his nose in a way that makes Sherlock a little unsteady. “A bit not gay.”

It’s not good enough. “John, are you heterosexual and experimenting, bisexual and describing it in mawkish terms, homosexual and prevaricating or some form of inadequately-researched sexuality that finds it self drawn to me?” 

“I have no idea. I like some men, and I like some women, and occasionally find myself attracted to a small percentage of both.”

“Wouldn’t that be bisexual?” 

John shrugs his shoulders. He knows what he likes but doesn’t like to think about it too much. “Probably. Look, I don’t know quite what to say here Sherlock, except I have very strong feelings for you and have done for a long time. And if I’ve caused you pain, I like the opportunity to - you know, make you better.” 

Sherlock swallows heavily. “Very well.” They stand looking at one another until Sherlock gets impatient. “What are you waiting for?” 

“Your permission.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Doctor Watson. Please dazzle me with your sexual expertise directly.” 

John lifts his chin and accepts the challenge, stretching his hand to Sherlock and walking with him to his bedroom. 

Sherlock’s heart is heaving. He is excited and nervous and wide eyed at the prospect of some thing completely new, his mouth watering in preparation for their first kiss.

They sit on the bed like chastised children. John reaches out and strokes a few wandering curls from Sherlock’s forehead, watches the strands settle softly into place and then trails his hand along Sherlock’s face, moving in to kiss him, drawing his lips down to his own. 

Sounds, flavours and touches rise like a storm and engulf Sherlock at a ferocious pace. He tries to wade through all the new information, gathering it up by the armfuls as John’s arms wind right around him and their bodies can get no closer. Only then does Sherlock understand that it makes no difference how much he knows about the organic structure of saliva or the anatomy of the tongue and it’s place in the digestive process – facts have no place here. All this warmth and tenderness and pleasure cannot be quantified or measured against anything because there isn’t anything like it. 

When the kiss eases he lets his lips linger a millimeter from John’s, helpless as the breathtaking landscape of their proposed intimacy starts to open to him. 

John is cupping his face and whispering. 

“Okay?” 

“Different.”

“How?” There’s a small slice of alarm in John’s voice. 

“It’s better when you like the person, isn’t it? It feels different.” 

John smiles. “It’s also different when the person likes you.” 

“Do you like me?” 

“Have we not established that? Of course I like you. I like you enormously.” 

Sherlock pulls him down on the bed and kisses him again, deeper, his hands insistent, kneading at John’s back, turned on by the density of the muscles there, aware of the enthusiasm of John’s response, curious and surprised as their erections bump together through their trousers. 

John can feel the sensations crowding Sherlock and knows that he will have a complete meltdown shortly. He’s seen it before at crime scenes, sometimes in an autopsy, where Sherlock is trying to organise his data and outside interference – even the sound of someone thinking – will cause him to short circuit completely, arms wavering and long fingers pressed into his face as if he might be able to deflect further interference to the endless voltage of his thoughts. 

John intervenes delicately to contain any malfunction. “I love being held like this,” he says dreamily. 

The most vicious bolts are silenced while the smaller charges in the sensory overload are diverted to this one irresistible thought. Sherlock focuses. “Do you?”

“Oh, yes.” John nuzzles the side of his face and whispers. “Tell me, did you ever think about doing this?” 

“Maybe once. A couple of times.” Sherlock settles back and they smile together. “Regularly.”

“What did you imagine?” 

“Kissing you.” 

“Where?” 

“Where was I when I had the fantasy, where did I kiss you, or where did I locate the fantasy?”

“Oh, you’re clever,” John teases as he takes an appreciative handful of buttock and squeezes gently. “Where did you locate the fantasy?” 

“Well, I have one where we’re in Camden tube station, another one down near the Traitor’s gate – oh! I have a brilliant one, one where we’re in the Chateau de Chambord and it’s very cold, but we have a fire in one of the huge fireplaces – and I mean huge, you could fit s dozen average sized adults in those fireplaces – and you’re naked but wrapped in a mink blanket on the southern helix spiral staircase - you know, John, Da Vinci is said to have designed them - and we’ve been on a case all night, and we’re both cold and want to go to bed but we can’t bear the idea of being separated, and then you pull me closer to kiss me, and –“ 

John pulls him closer to kiss him. Chateau de Chambord indeed. 

“Like that,” Sherlock whispers. “Exactly like that, except I could never actually imagine something like that.”

John rocks him slightly, confident that the short circuit has been avoided. 

“Did you ever fantasize about me?” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“Well, don’t be obtuse, John. Tell me.” 

“It’s not anywhere special” –

“JUST TELL ME.”

“Well, you’re being your usual difficult self, like now – which incidentally can be very alluring sometimes – and you’re having a bath” - Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly – “and you’re all sore from running around all day, and you’re naked, well, obviously because you’re in the bath, and you’ve called me to wash your back and I’m kneeling beside you –“ 

“Are you naked?” 

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m in my uniform, sometimes I’m in my scrubs.” 

His Uniform! Washing my back in his uniform! Sherlock issues the tiniest smile. “Go on.” 

John leans in and lowers his voice, carefully placing his fingers on Sherlock’s chest and seeking out the buttons, opening each one slowly as he whispers. “And I wash your back and you’re complaining, but gradually you calm down, and I slip the wash cloth around to your chest, and then stroke your neck, and you flex up so I can see how broad your chest is, and I can feel your biceps, then you turn around all dripping and soft and kiss me.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are glazed with adoring wonder as he shifts so the buttons can be loosened easily. “You’ve thought about my chest?” 

“Many times.” 

“So, this fantasy … does it work for you? Is it good?” 

John kisses him again. “It’s fantastic. Your face is all wet and you’re warm. And your chest is fantastic.” 

“Do we have bath sex?” 

“Yes. That’s the whole point of the fantasy.”

“What kind of bath sex?” Sherlock is now loosening John’s shirt while assessing the best way to show John how broad his chest really is. 

“Frot, generally, although sometimes I suck you off.” John is slipping his hand carefully under the crisp fabric and spreading his fingers over Sherlock’s heart. 

He takes a sharp breath. Ademar didn’t prepare him for this at all, it seems. “I don’t think I’m going to last very long.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” John whispers. “There’s no schedule. You just tell me what you want. Don’t think about it.” 

“Frottage is nice. I can do that, you know. I can show you if you’d like.” 

John presses his smile against the pulse in Sherlock’s throat. “I would absolutely love that.” 

Sherlock wants to explain that he has the perfect substitute for lube but when he opens his mouth, John is tenderly kissing the awkward little spaces around his Adam’s apple and no words come. He’s never had his throat kissed, nor had any reason to stop and imagine how wonderful it would be. 

“My God, you’re lovely,” John declares between kisses.

“Am I?” 

“So lovely. So smooth and warm and lovely.”

“We have to take out clothes off,” Sherlock answers. 

“Well, sit up and we will.” 

Sherlock does as John does, slipping his shirt off, unfastening his trousers, leaving his socks and shoes where they fall. Once he looks, he’s unable to tear his eyes away from John thighs and belly, the predictable bulge and coarse sprigs of hair. He gets a quick glimpse of the cloud of moisture spreading on the fabric of his pants before they’re peeled off, the beautiful flushed cock completely erect. John stands before him, watching the appraisal. 

Sherlock’s curiousity trumps shyness and he reaches out to runs the pad of his thumb over John’s umbilical scar. 

Then he lifts his eyes and sees John’s war wound. “Oh! Oh, that is wonderful. No, don’t put your hand over it, come here, show me, I want to see it.” 

The entry point is a delicate splash just below John’s shoulder; the exit is a messy blast that surgery was only able to correct slightly. Sherlock passes his fingertips over the weft of skin, imagining the scorched passage through the muscle and the miniscule dent on the artery. 

“I feel like I know all your secrets now,” he says quietly. 

John doesn’t answer. It’s nice, wrapped in Sherlock’s arms like this. It’s never felt this nice, he realises. No lover has ever made me feel this way. 

He languishes in the caresses as Sherlock measures the length of his back and touches each tiny mark there. 

John starts a search of his own, rolling each nipple between his fingers, savouring the little gasps that causes, then smoothing his palms over the breastplate as Sherlock flexes his muscles. This little display fills John with tenderness and he holds him more closely, stroking his hands down Sherlock’s back but stopping when he feels ten or more long fat scars. 

He sits up to investigate and finds the remnants of a serious beating. “What the hell? Who did this to you?” 

Sherlock sighs. “Some Serbians aren’t very nice. Especially when you try and intercept their criminal behaviour.” 

It changes the energy they have generated. John is reminded of victims of torture he has seen and indeed treated, Sherlock is reminded of an awful time when John was so far from him in many ways. 

For a minute the bitter cold of a Serbian winter fills the room. 

“I don’t want that to be a thing here,” Sherlock says without looking up. ”I promise we can talk about it later. Can we just … continue as we were?” 

“Of course, of course we can.” John, though, is filling with electricity of his own, angry, sour voltage he can’t diffuse. He starts to whisper to Sherlock, small, private regrets that Sherlock was hurt this way, his commitment that no one will ever hurt him again. 

It brings another dimension to their coupling. Sherlock responds effusively to the care, the promise of protection, while John taps into his other secrets that Sherlock can’t quite see yet, those overwhelming desires to possess and adore. 

They kiss earnestly now, moving more quickly, their cocks nudging. 

“Lay on your back for me,” John whispers. 

Sherlock eases onto his back as John gets on his knees, lifting Sherlock’s leg over his shoulder, stamping kisses all the way to his balls, rolling his lips over the soft creases, pressing his thumb over the crumpled opening. Sherlock loses count of the different kinds of pleasure John can make and bites his bottom lip in giddy anticipation as John takes him in his mouth. 

John sucks him until he feels both hands clutch in warning. He calls halt as Sherlock grimaces, hands squeezing John as he concentrates on damming the pleasure. 

“Oh Christ,” Sherlock says over and over in hot breaths. 

When he’s calmed himself he sits up and John sets back, on his knees now so Sherlock can taste him. He makes slow deliberate sips along the shaft, rubbing his lips over the glans and dabbing the syrupy slit with the tip of his tongue. John’s hands are all over him. Fuck, Sherlock, he pants, oh fuck, stop, stop, stop now. Sherlock leans back and watches as John presses tightly with thumb and forefinger just below the tip of his own cock, face strained as he suppresses his orgasm. 

“Okay?” 

“Fuck, Sherlock” John says again as sweeps kisses over his face. “That was fantastic.” 

Sherlock is restless as John catches his breath. After what he deems is a decent interval, he leans in to John ear. “ Is it time to frot?” 

John laughs. “I think it is. Let’s frot. Do you want to do the honours?” 

He doesn’t answer. Honours? What honours? 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, “Have you got any lube?”

“Oh! I have something much better! Wait here.”

John flops on his back, giggling behind his knuckles when Sherlock returns with a bottle of hair conditioner. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Trust me. It’s sensational.” 

He moves over the bed on his knees, opens the flip top lid with his teeth and squeezes heavy cool puddles of hair conditioner over John’s cock and belly.

“Smells nice,” is all he says as Sherlock smears the waxy cream over John and then his own shaft. They gently fit their body together, pushing together slowly. The conditioner surpasses John’s expectations. 

Sherlock watches John’s face, his eyes closing and opening, the slack mouth, the pleasure that presents as anguish and it’s too much, so lovely and too much. They wind their slippery hands around their shafts, rubbing their faces together, falling deeper in love as they find their rhythm and push into one another. 

John feels Sherlock start to tremble under the weight of all these new experiences. You really are great at this, he whispers. Their eyes meet and lock as they thrusts harder. So beautiful, John tells him, you’re mine, all mine and Sherlock comes in a hot wet blast, thick streams of semen that squirt over John’s belly, the heavy rank scent clouding them instantly. John holds him in place; just a few beats behind as always.

“I’m going to come,” he says with something like pain. “Oh God, Sherlock.”

“You keep me right, John,” Sherlock pants as he humps still, exhausted but unable to stop, grimacing at the friction now. He shifts to cradle John’s head with his right arm. 

“I keep you,” John growls back. “You’re mine. No one comes near you again.”

Sherlock nods, smiling. “No one,” he says as he settles into John’s arms. “Never.” 

*** 

“I wasn’t expecting all this,” Sherlock says afterwards, still in John’s arms, measuring the volume of his lungs and memorizing his heartbeat.

“Expecting what? Soft pubic hair or sex?” 

“No, of course I expected sex when we took our clothes off and I could see your frankly impressive erection. No, I mean this.” He makes a vague gesture with his hands. “We’re not friends anymore – I mean, we’re friends, obviously” – 

“Best friends,” John reminds him. 

“Yes, yes, but we’re more now, aren’t we?”

“Well, lovers.” 

“Yes, but more than that. We’ve opened up a new room. We’ve added something to the friendship.” It’s forming in his mind as he rests his face one John’s chest, a picture of the passageway that reaches between John and himself, a small private connection that is now marked indelibly with the heavy clear sound of John’s heart. 

“We’ve each opened a door to the other.” 

John smiles. “Yes.”

Sherlock taps his fingers lightly across John’s clavicle. “We’re connected.” 

“For someone who doesn’t take relationships seriously, you have a surprisingly clear insight into their machinations.” 

“Hmmm.”

There is so much detail about John to absorb, indentify, label and file. Sherlock sniffs as he catalogues the different scents that emanate from John – denser, more potent scents at his armpits and groin, finer, more transparent scents at his throat and hands. The curiously milky fragrance of his hair. When he’s got them organised, he starts excavating a small area of confusion in his mind palace and begins to build a John Sex room. He puts the helix spiral staircase from the Chateau de Chambord in the centre. 

John is stroking the fine cheekbones and watching Sherlock’s mental activity blaze in his exquisite eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m expanding my mind palace to include a place for you.”

“I’m getting on my own room?” 

“Well, you already have one, but it’s not very interesting. I have to make one to hold all your sex things now.” 

“What’s in the uninteresting one?” 

“All the things you’ve said and done, your personal preferences for food, drink and clothing, your favourite books and films and your sock index. And stop making sad cow eyes about being uninteresting. I meant that it’s uninteresting to you. It is endlessly fascinating for me.” 

“I have a sock index?” 

“You most certainly have a sock index. I can make you a real one if you like.” Sherlock’s eyes grow brighter still as one of his most treasured dreams comes tantalizingly close. “You know John, if you want to sleep in here, share this room with me, I could make us a COMBINED sock index.” He talks as if he’s offering the Hope diamond. 

“Would it make you happy if we had a combined sock index?” 

“Delirious.” 

“In which case, I’m moving to your bed. Let’s merge our socks. At the moment, though, I’m hungry. I don’t suppose Additive Simblebowers taught you about the joys about post coitus carb loading, did he? Of course not. I thought as much. I’m going to make us some toast and some – well, whatever I can find in the fridge that hasn’t come from the morgue.” 

The look on Sherlock’s face informed John to widen his perimeters. 

“Are there dead things in the fridge that haven’t come from the morgue?” 

“The law doesn’t require birds’ deaths to be recorded by the coroner, John. And when I say dead birds I mean a pelican. A dead one. And it’s not in the fridge yet.” 

It takes John a moment to understand how a dead pelican got in the flat in the last few hours. “Ah. So they weren’t bricks.” 

“Why would I need bricks?” 

“I think the real question is why do you need a dead pelican?” 

“Pelicans are the symbol of piety. Its based on the popular myth that if a pelican mother can’t find food for her chicks, she pierces her breast with her beak and lets her babies drink her blood.” 

John’s face is still. “I don’t know what to say to that, except I can’t see how having a pelican corpse is supposed to honour that.” 

“Professor Cowan told me he would send me a pelican corpse if he got an spare.” 

“A spare?” 

“He gets them all the time,” Sherlock says airily. “I thought I might try taxidermy. Are we getting food?” 

It’s difficult to know which way to go with this conversation, so John lets it drop and reaches for his mobile phone. Someone else can look after the carbs. 

(John foolishly forgot about the pelican and the following morning, admittedly in a haze of love sodden sex exhaustion, nearly jumped through the roof when he idly reached in the fridge and found a cold, rubbery bill where the milk should have been. But that’s obviously a story for another time.) 

After feeding one another pizza and some slightly greasy nuzzling, Sherlock shows John all he knows about oral sex while simultaneously opening a file about John’s penis in his mind palace. John reciprocates by showing Sherlock exactly how potent the prostate gland can be. When they finish, they squabble over the etiquette of swallowing (“If you swallow, you should make a production of it so your partner can see, John”) and who should go and make the cups of tea. 

Tea becomes Sherlock’s duty because of the pelican. 

***

They don’t bother getting out of bed and use the late evening lolling to clarify a couple of contentious points. Sherlock is not optimistic.

“I’m going to be a bad boyfriend.” 

John giggles. “I know! But I’m going to be fucking fantastic and that should make up for it.” 

“I’m serious, John. There’s a reason why a man my age is still single.” 

“Sherlock, I’ve known you for nearly five years. You’re actually going to be a magnificent boyfriend, and so am I, because you are exactly everything I want.” 

Sherlock closes that file in his mind palace. A few others lay scattered around the floor and snag his attention. 

“Just so I’m clear, can we have as much sex as we like?” He likes agendas, if only so he can disregard them completely. 

John is sorting through the thick dark curls, stretching them gently and watching them spring back into place. “Yes. Or as little as you want. I intend to make sure that you are not only the most pain-free but also the most content gay man in London. Are you measuring my ear with your tongue?” 

Sherlock is. His mouth covers John’s ear entirely before he leans back with his next question. 

“What if you want sex but I don’t?” 

“Then I wank in the shower and wait for you to want sex again. Why do you need the measurement of my ear and why can’t you use a ruler to get it?” 

“It’s important data. You never know when we might be trapped in a dark basement and the only method available to me to identify you will be to measure your ear with my mouth.”

John is about to refute the likelihood of that but realises that they’ve been in stranger situations. He listens to the odd seashell sounds as his ear is engulfed in the warm lips, catching a breath as the measurement turns to delicate little nips and a gentle whisper. 

“Would you like to measure my ear with your mouth?” 

John makes his happy, high-pitched giggle. “I love this relationship so much already!” He combs some of Sherlock’s curls behind his ear and tenderly fits his mouth over the entire ear. 

Sherlock makes a small entry in another file about the feel of John’s mouth on his ear. 

“What happens if I want sex and you don’t?” 

“I always want sex.” 

“Always?” 

“Yes. I love sex, and save being dead or confronted with a dead pelican, can always get a line up.” 

Sherlock pulls back. “So if I’m not available will you have sex with other people?” 

“Nope. Only you. I have a very limited attention span. Also, I’m very faithful. And in any case I’m besotted with you. I have no interest in having sex with anyone but you. You are the most intriguing and arousing person in the world. Also the loveliest. Only a fool would want to have sex with anyone else.” 

He spreads both hands appreciatively across Sherlock’s back and feels him puff with the compliment. 

“You know John, I think we could be very happy.” 

“It’s my intention to make you as happy as I can.” 

“What about you?” 

“I don’t think I could be any happier than I am now. Except for one thing.” 

Sherlock looks up expectantly. 

“That polish on your toenails has got to go.”


	10. Chapter 10

At work the next day John, a focused man who also loves agendas, spent his lunch hour watching instructive videos on You Tube. On the way home he stopped at a large Boots chemist and picked up some supplies. He made a final stop at Waitrose and bought some pasta and vegetables. As far as he was concerned, part of his brief in keeping Sherlock happy included keeping Sherlock fed. Unfortunately he forgot about the dead pelican until it was too late. 

No leftovers in the fridge tonight. 

“Thank God you’re back,” Sherlock sighs when he walks though the door, eyes all over him, deducing every millimeter. Why has he been to Boots? Lubricants? Massage oil? “Did you think about me today?” 

“Relentlessly. But right now I want you to have to have a bath.” 

Massage oil, Sherlock decides. Bath Sex! He puts his large beak aside to get things rolling. 

He is little surprised when John appears in just a robe as he soaking, carrying a small bottle and a large puff of cotton wool balls. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks as John gently lifts one wet foot from the tub. And then he realises – his pretty toes are being erased. He concentrates on masking his disappointment while working out the many interesting things he could do with nail polish remover. 

But John is full of surprises. When every trace of Constellation is gone, he takes Sherlock back to their bed and carefully rests a foot on his lap. He produces a blue nail file and he checks that each nail is straight and then rubs cream into each toe. Then he strokes the arch of each foot and smiles as Sherlock breathes deeply with half closed eyes. 

And then he produces a bottle of Butter nail varnish in a very deep purple, a noble sparkling colour that has an opalescent effect under the light. 

“It’s called Branwen’s Feather,” John tells Sherlock as he applies the varnish in careful strokes. “And it’s English. You can’t be wearing any of that suspect French stuff.” 

Sherlock is straining to see how the varnish looks on his toes.” I didn’t know you had a foot fetish.” 

“I don’t. I have a Sherlock fetish. And since it would be wrong to brand your arse with my initials, I thought this might be a very nice substitute.” 

Sherlock’s eyes grow dreamy as he imagines the skin on one buttock sizzling under a hot poker. 

“NO.” John is adamant. “No branding. It would hurt you, and it might get infected. This is much more pleasant. And it looks wonderful.” He looks up to his partner who is still rather taken with the idea of branding. “You have lovely feet. I think this might be great therapy for both of us when we’ve had a hard day. And it’s our secret.”

Sherlock watches as John, with a surgeon’s careful hands, makes each toe a pretty little jewel. 

“Did you choose the colour, or did a woman in boots help you?” 

“I chose ALL the colours,” John says with a smug little smile, and waits for the huge tide of curiousity to rise. “Yes, alright, remain calm. You can look at them all now.” 

There’s a bronze called Tea and Toast, a bright navy blue called Blue Coat, a murky olive with streak of gold called Cease Fire and a deep black-blood red called Man of the Moment. The names are perfect echoes of the familiar and comforting things that John and he have collected between them over the years. 

“You really are rather brilliant, aren’t you?” Sherlock says when his toenails are done. They glow like the under side of a rook’s wing. 

John kisses the pad of his big toe. “I think besotted is more accurate.”

*** 

So the transition from flat mates to lovers was seamless. 

The pain was gone. Sherlock showed no obvious after effects of his illness. He was, he was certain, more healthy than he had ever been. John Watson made good on his commitment – Sherlock really was the happiest gay man in London. 

Visitors to the flat noticed his painted toenails. Reactions were consistent. 

“Is that your thing now?” Lestrade wondered when he made an early morning call with an interesting case. (Sherlock agreed to investigate the unusual death that local police charged as dangerous driving, but that Lestrade suspected was vehicular homicide.)

Sherlock smiled smugly. “Yes, it is definitely my thing.” 

“Great colour,” Donovan said, annoyed at herself for finding the painted nails so alluring. 

John, eating porridge in the kitchen, felt a delicious burst of possession in his chest. 

Mrs Hudson was fascinated. 

“Sherlock,” she asked one evening when she bought up some scones, “Your toes are lovely. You’ll have to give me the name of your beautician.” 

“I would love too but he refuses to take any more clients. He only sees me because I assisted him in finding his - yacht.”

“How did he lose a yacht?” 

“He was an idiot. And the Pacific Ocean is very large.” 

***   
Despite his sincerity, Ademar Silver’s groundwork was soon superseded by John’s varied experience and Sherlock’s gift for lateral thinking. It took them only a few nights to conclude that Sherlock was a bossy bottom, although they happily switched roles whenever the mood struck because, as John said, change should always be anticipated in healthy relationships. 

*** 

They were at their best when they were together. We are, they realised as their love grew and progressed, each other’s best man. 

On the day of their six-month anniversary, Billy Kinkaid, who had exhausted the elasticity of the British legal system and was facing a thirty year stretch, blagged his way into the prison infirmary. 

“Doctor Watson, I presume.” Billy sniggers as he is escorted through the door. 

“William Kinkaid,” John reads aloud from the file in front of him. It’s important he remains neutral with patients until he can assess their illness and whether or not they are a danger to him or themselves. “Take a seat.” 

Billy sits down in a worn chair and looks John over carefully. He likes what he sees. 

“How’s my friend Sherlock? I heard he was in some pain but that he made a great recovery.” 

John’s face is unreadable but Billy can see it in his eyes - the caution, the protectiveness. 

“Sherlock’s an old friend of mine,” Billy explains. “I saw him a few months ago and told him he had straight boy pain. Now I hear he got it cured.” 

“Sherlock’s very well,” is all the doctor says. “It says here you have chest pains.” 

Billy giggles. “I just said that so I could introduce myself. And you know how boring it is out there.”

The guard roles his eyes.

“I see.” John’s unconcerned. It happens a lot. Prison is boring and for some inmates, a trip to infirmary can be the most interesting thing that happens all year. “Can I listen to your chest, just to be certain?”

“If you want.” 

Billy obligingly lifts up his standard issue ash coloured shirt and looks around the surgery while John pushes the bell of his stethoscope around the old bony chest. He hears a healthy heart that thrums loud and strong. 

“Sounds fine,” John says as he pulls the phones from his ears and lets the instrument hang around his neck. “Anything else?” 

“Tell Sherlock I said hi, and that I’m glad he’s better.” 

John simply nods, giving away nothing. 

*** 

He arrives home that night with a vast bunch of varicoloured roses and finds Sherlock in the kitchen, cooking dinner. 

“Met a friend of yours today,” John tells him as he leans over Sherlock’s shoulder to see a rich bouillabaisse bubbling in an unfamiliar cast iron pot. 

Sherlock’s perplexed. He still maintains that he has no friends, only one. 

“Billy Kinkaid,” John continues. “He asked me to tell you that he hopes you’re feeling better.” 

“Oh! Billy! How is he?” 

“Well, he doesn’t have chest pains, which is the how he managed to sneak in to the surgery. Is he” - 

“Yes, the Camden Garrotter. And yes, he did send me to that person who cures straight boy pain. Why did you buy flowers?” 

“Why are you cooking dinner? And where did that pot come from?” 

“That’s our pot. I bought it today from Selfridges.” 

“For experiments?” 

“No, because you like warm wet foods full of meat. We have a pot now. Who gave you those flowers?” 

“I bought them. These are our flowers.” 

He hands them to Sherlock. It could be an impasse, but it is so typical of their communication, the secret, intimate language they are developing with its roots in trust, experience and their ever expanding understanding of each other. They stand face to face, each determined to not to smile but end up smiling straight into one another’s eyes. 

“Hungry?” Sherlock says after a minute. 

There’s bread and wine and the bouillabaisse is rich and tasty. They talk about the ailments John’s seen today and a case Sherlock has been reading about, one that he thinks John should join him on tomorrow. 

While they wash up, John asks some clumsy questions, trying to confirm that Sherlock has deleted Ademar Sterling. Sherlock deliberately antagonizes John by talking at cross purposes. It might have ended in a raging fight for other couples; John and Sherlock end up laughing so hard they are, for a few moments, unable to speak at all. 

Later that night John watches the news and Sherlock lays with his head in his lap, resting his chin on his joined hands. 

“It’s good here, isn’t it?” John says as he bends his face down and leaves a kiss Sherlock’s hair. 

It’s good, so good, every lovely thing he dreamed of and quite a few he never imagined. But Sherlock only smiles in response, leaving the magic of their loveliness unspoken as it settles around them in the cool night air.


End file.
